Prologue：The Forger Who Filled the Blank
(Translated from Japanese)
[Story Summary]
A forger—someone who lives behind the canvas of art history.
They paint the “what-if” pieces of famous artists—works so convincing they slip seamlessly into the market.
Though counterfeit, their brushstrokes sometimes carry truths even more real than the originals.
This story is inspired by a “genius forger” who shook the art world of the 20th century.
What he recreated was not the past—but a world of possibility.
He painted not to deceive, but to speak.
A life spent becoming someone else, to fill in the blank.
This is the quiet yet vivid story of an artist who walked the tightrope between art and lies.
Prologue: The Forger Who Filled the Blank
—I felt no guilt.
At least, not when it came to art.
The word “forgery” had always struck me as absurd.
What I painted was a piece that might have existed.
Into an empty space no one had dared touch, I drew a single line.
As if adding melody to a silence that had lingered too long.
And if that was a lie,
then this world is drowning in lies.
That painting—so admired, so believed—I gave it a soul.
—So I kept painting.
Even if none of them ever bore a name.
＊
“I, Adalbert Weiss, created fourteen forgeries—”
A deep, resonant voice echoed through the courtroom.
“—and committed fraud on a scale of billions of yen.
Everyone believed they were genuine. They were moved.
They said, ‘This is truly magnificent’...
And I won’t deny—I enjoyed that.”
Some jurors glanced down at their files, stone-faced.
Others frowned slightly.
The steady click of shutter releases filled the public gallery.
Weiss spoke as though he were back in his own studio.
Long, wavy silver hair spilled over his shoulders.
A scruffy beard covered his mouth.
He wore a soft gray tweed jacket, relaxed at the shoulders,
over a crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the chest—
no tie, just casual elegance.
His left pinky, shaped by years of holding a brush,
bent slightly inward, its knuckle calloused and shining.
Even in court,
he refused to shed the skin of an artist.
And his face held no hint of regret.
＊
Outside the courthouse.
A storm of flashes greeted him as reporters swarmed.
“Mr. Weiss! Any final words?”
One reporter thrust a microphone toward him.
Weiss slowly lifted his face and met the reporter’s gaze.
Then, calmly—and with absolute conviction—he spoke:
“—The ecstasy… was irresistible.”
He paused. A corner of his mouth curled into a smile.
“I am a man who has left his name in art history.
That can never be erased.”
Weiss looked straight ahead, smiling brazenly—
as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
→ Chapter One
